Once again, thank you all for the wonderful support. It's nice to know that I'm not the only one who has a soft spot for the older seasons :)

Love,

blueprintofyourpast

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P.S.: Just like the previous chapter, this one is also kind of all over the place. Besides that, I changed the rating because I wasn't sure if this fic was still suitable for children. Come to think of it, it probably never was.

03: The Past

Dumb luck leads them to a ragged backyard where they find another trapdoor hidden under dead sloe and withered weeds. This time, however, it's all steel and concrete. This time, a neon lamp comes to life with a flicker and a croaky hum. This time, there's no cattle but rows of metal racks bursting with real food.

Untouched cans of peaches, pears, and tomato soup. Giant plastic water jugs and MRE cartons wrapped up in foil. A small kitchen unit, a portable heater, and a dining table with four mismatching chairs. One adjacent room with a closet and a bunk bed, another with a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. Spearmint toothpaste, soap, and running water. Blankets, bedrolls, and batteries. Clean clothes and cheap china. A stack of envelopes and medical bills in the top drawer of the nightstand that gives them some information about the person who built this place.

It's fair to say that Mr Eugene Porter – a science teacher who used to work at the local elementary school before he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer – was probably a wayward genius and on good terms with the military. Chances are that he was also pretty popular with his students. Otherwise they wouldn't've sent him tons of letters full of get-well wishes and tiny drawings of winged cows, butterflies, and a stickman with a mullet juggling colourful test tubes in front of a group of smiling children.

Despite that, there's no unequivocal explanation as to why he never made it to the bunker in time. He would've been prepared for anything, but maybe he was in the hospital when the first big thunderstorm came to ravage the land. Maybe he was already dead.

"Do you think we should thank him?" his boy asks whilst digging into his giant load of mac and cheese.

Rick freezes, still overstrained by the whole situation. By the absurdity of it. The sheer fucking absurdity of having a roof over his head and a warm meal waiting for him on his plate. Mashed potatoes and gravy. A glass of 7 Up. It's unreal.

"I guess we could do that", the woman right next to him chimes in before she brings her bowl to her mouth and slurps up the remains of her chicken soup; she wipes her chin with the back of her wrist and regards the kid with a wink and an encouraging smile.

"Will you do it, Michonne?"

"Why don't you?"

"I don't know how."

"'Course you do. You know how to say thank you."

Chewing on his lower lip, Carls looks a little lost. He's cowled up in a dark green Dartmouth hoodie and the legs of his chequered pyjama pants are rolled up to his ankles. His socks are purple and printed with tiny four-leaved clovers. His face is still blotched with red from his piping hot bubble bath. After a moment, he clasps his hands.

"Dear Mr Porter", he begins with his eyes closed, "Thank you for all this food and stuff. We know that you saved it for yourself and if you were here we wouldn't eat it no matter how hungry we were. We're sorry that you didn't get to eat it and we hope that you're safe in heaven with God", he looks at his father, "Is that okay?"

"Yeah", Rick says with a firm nod to emphasise his approval because he doesn't know what else to do, "I think that's okay."

His skin goes up in flames when she places her hand on his forearm, and he thinks about what happened on the bridge. She doesn't treat him differently now. If anything, she has become more concerned about his wellbeing and he likes to think that she started behaving that way because she cares about him. Maybe not as much as he cares about her – because that's simply impossible – but still enough to tell him when to stop and rest.

For some reason, it all reminds him of the early days back in his hometown when she would make her rounds in the neighbourhood and distribute free first aid kits to those in need. He was hiding in the living room when his wife asked her if she wanted to join them for dinner, and he felt oddly relieved when he heard her decline Lori's offer in the politest manner. She's always had a natural knack for that, turning people down without hurting their feelings.

He stares at her hand.

It's strange. He was so sure that he'd die if she didn't answer him straight away. He was sure that he'd be bitter and heartbroken about it, but it's nice to see that he was wrong. He loves her, and the fact that she knows how to set priorities – that she knows how to focus on keeping his son alive instead of entangling herself in banalities – makes him love her even more, so he's going wait until she's ready to come to him.

"Your food's getting cold", she says, patting his arm lightly, "You should eat. Carl and I are gonna take care of the dishes, so you can go and fix your face."

"My face?"

He fights the urge to reach up and feel for any cuts or bruises he might've sustained during their time in the wilderness. He thinks back to the scraggy stranger who stared back at him from the river surface with haunted eyes. He used to be more than that. He used to be a man of the law. A husband. A human being.

"It's losing the war", she expounds cheekily.

The flash of her teeth steals the air from his lungs. She nearly killed him when she emerged from the bathroom about an hour ago, dressed in a powder blue robe and with her braids piled on top of her head. The sight of her – clean, relaxed, smiling – left him with a pleasurable twinge of arousal. It still does, but thankfully, Carl's snickering snaps him out of his daze.

"Yeah, Dad. You look like a caveman."

"Thanks, son."

He puts a spoonful of potatoes in his mouth. They're kinda bland, but in this world bland is tantamount to bursting with flavour, so he ends up scarfing it all down in record time – much to the amusement of his companions. After a while, his boy tells a story about how he would squash the peas Lori used to serve him with his fork and then used the green pulp to paint the underside of the dinner table.

The woman right next throws her head back in laughter and Rick smirks around his spoon. Silently, he sends up his own prayer hoping that whatever deity had brought them to this place will grace them with a few more days like these before they'd have to move on and get back on the road.

After dinner, they switch off the neon lamp and light up some candles to save electricity. He can hear their playful banter on his way to the bathroom. It's almost like they're back in his house. He likes that idea.

He trims his beard with manicure scissors because the woman right next to him already claimed the safety razor. In the shower, he tries to imagine what her thighs would feel like under his palm, and then he scrubs the thought off his skin along with all the grime that's been clinging to his body since that morning they spent in the river.

Oh, the river.

How it leeched on to her back and swathed her like a light-tight cloak. How it trickled down her ribs and left a trail of goose bumps in its wake. How she stepped into the water and became one with it. The memories flash and dance before his eyes while he slips into a pair of sweatpants and a brown t-shirt and makes his way back to the kitchen. His boy is nowhere to be seen, but there's the faint sound of his sleepy mumbling coming through the bedroom door.

"How do I look?"

She turns away from the sink and smiles at him, still wearing that goddamned robe. Her gaze – curious and unrelenting – makes him nervous. His face grows hot. Fuck. He shouldn't've asked.

"Better", she says, "A little less crazed."

He almost laughs at that.

"Just a little?"

Her smile broadens and she resumes her task. He'd help her if it weren't for the sudden canter of his heart. He walks up to her until he's right behind her because there's nothing he can do about it, this primal need to be close to her. To get sucked into her orbit and die there.

"You know, Lori used to hate on your beard all the time."

As a matter of fact, Lori used to hate on a lot of things. The news, the weather, the brambles in Mr Horvath's front yard. Rick's beard was probably just the tip of the iceberg. Nonetheless, he always wondered what they would talk about at the gym or during their occasional trips to the mall. Turns out it was him and all his alleged faults – at least sometimes.

"I miss her", she says, "She was a good friend."

He bites his tongue. He can't deny that. Back in high school, Lori had flocks of people following her around – not because she intimidated them with some sort of queen bee bravado but because she was a nice person. She was probably a great friend. He just never really got to see that side of her because they refused to give themselves the chance to be friends before they tied the knot and became the prime example of a disillusioned wife and a sad-sack husband who spent most of his days secretly lusting after his oblivious neighbour.

"I miss her", she says again; unable to help himself, he reaches out and splays his fingers over the fake silk that covers her shoulder blades, "But I'm also mad at her for what she did to you and Carl."

A lump grows in his throat like it always does when he thinks about his wife these days. All those years of them wasting away together ruined them in so many ways that even the end of the world couldn't push them to fix their problems. It just got worse and then, when their son got sick and needed them the most, they fell apart completely.

He remembers finding her in the woods the night after she left. She was staring holes into the sky while the shadows of a thousand snowflakes flittered across her sunken cheeks. She was finally at peace and he took a step back to think about how much his boy was going to miss her. He stared, blinked, and stared some more before he picked her up and carried her back home. He never hated her more than in that moment.

The woman right next to him jumps and turns at his touch. Her smile is wobbly and her eyes are dimmed by wistfulness. Last time she looked at him like that, sympathy tore his heart into shreds when he learned about her former boyfriend and the massive occupational stress that pushed him into a ready-made casket. Last time she looked at him like that, they fed each other golden shots of dopamine and merged with the darkness that embowered them.

Her hands – warm and slick with soapsuds – creep up the sides of his neck and sink into his damp curls. He cups her face and her tears dash against his thumbs. A soundless sob jostles her chest.

"You said you knew I was in love with you when I took you in, but that's not when it happened, 'Chonne", his own eyes begin to sting as he leans in to whisper against her mouth, "It happened before."

Her lips taste like sweet lime and her tongue is made of saccharine. He wants her to believe that they're bound by more than the fading faces of their belated loved ones. He wants her to believe that this isn't just a by-product of past tragedies and personal bereavements. He wants her to believe that this is different, so he sighs and pours it all – his love, hopes, doubts, and anxieties – into the kiss.

Tilting her head, she sets the course and for a while, they stumble around in the candlelight. A lone plate wakes with a startled clatter when she moves to sit on the edge of the table and pulls him closer, so that he's standing between her legs.

In the back of his mind he knows that this might be nothing but another fantasy. He's dreamed of pleasing her so many times, he wouldn't be surprised if he blinked and found himself back in the bathroom, and the thought alone fills him with dread. The thought alone keeps him from reacting the way he's supposed to react – that is, until she drags her nails across his scalp and degenerates him into a keening mess.

"Ssssh", she urges him, nuzzling his jaw and cheek, and tapping her fingertips against his lips as if to fend off the small, pathetic noises that sprawl from his vocal chords.

She's right – of fucking course she is – but how is he supposed to stay calm when she takes hold of his right hand and brings it down to the sash of her robe? How is he supposed to bite back his entrancement when his fingers brush her bare breasts and stomach? How is he supposed to do all that when being allowed to touch her like this is something he's been waiting, hoping, and praying for since they shared a couple of tear-tanged kisses in that drugstore in Lexington?

No, scratch that.

It's something that's been brewing up in the depths of his skull since he watched her small-talk the mailman into submission. At the time, the world wasn't scarred by hunger and savagery, and he was free to rave and fantasise. At the time, he knew that he'd never give voice to his lewd daydreams – or act on them – so he came to terms with them and filed them under idle curiosity.

It worked out pretty well for him in the beginning: he'd dream of her and wake up in the middle of the night – hard, confused, and soaked with sweat – while Lori tossed and muttered on her side of the bed, and he could live with that since no-one forced him to admit that he wanted to fuck a woman who obviously wasn't his wife. No-one forced him to see things for what they really were, but then he wanted to be her friend because her smile was intoxicating and apparently, even the conservative elites of the neighbourhood failed to resist her subtle charm for too long and succumbed to it eventually.

So, he tried to talk himself into the idea that becoming her friend would somehow put an end to his ill-advised infatuation. That maybe – hopefully – he'd learn something about her that would turn him off. A gross habit or a certain view on politics that would scare him away and remind him that he had no right to further jeopardise his marriage.

But none of that ever happened. In a brutal twist of events, his wife beat him to the punch and he was left feeling like he was the butt of some cruel joke. And he didn't quite get it until Lori started gushing over this new friend of hers. This kind, intelligent, remarkable woman who lived across the street and had a fling for yoga, gardening, and tacky true crime documentaries. Hell, even her weird obsession with Blood Relatives and Evil Stepmothers didn't stop him from pining after her like some helpless middle schooler. Just picturing her watching that ridiculous crap with a bowl of sticky sweet popcorn sitting in her lap made him smile on a daily basis.

"Please, we gotta", she mewls, lifting her hips when he tugs at the waistline of her panties, "W-We gotta be quiet."

The cotton – slightly damp and candy apple red – comes off and he palms her womb. He moans again and drops his head into the crook of her neck. He was never good at this and he's worried that it might take him too long to get her ready, but she knows exactly what she wants. She isn't too shy to guide him until he finds a spot that prompts her to surge, wiggle, and falter in his embrace like a broken windup toy.

A flick of his wrist sees her breaking her own rules. She curses under her breath and he'd be fucking proud of himself if it weren't for the growing pressure in his groin and the way she starts to buck against his hand. He curls his fingers and falls in love with her all over again. He tells her so and nips at the underside of her jaw.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

As expected, being inside of her trumps every experience he's ever made before. It's because he belongs there, he knows that now. He knows that his rightful place is between her legs with his sweatpants pooling around his ankles and his trembling hands fused to the table top and the hollow of her knee.

Her pulse thumps against his forehead and he sucks at her collarbone, rocking into her in a rhythm that is probably too slow and far from perfect. Still, she's eager enough to mirror his movements. And she's perfect. She's tight, she's bossy, and she spurs him on with a litany of choked-out obscenities that shatter his virtues and make him dizzy with want.

She's astonishing and he can't believe how they got here. From stepping into the bunker to a cosy family dinner to him battling his desire in for her in the shower to a one-sided conversation about his wife and, ultimately, to this.

"I –I can't –"

Breathing through clenched teeth, he tries to draw away and give them both a break, but she doesn't let him. She spikes his guns when she arches her back and wraps her legs tighter around his waist with a whiny growl. It's a shame that he doesn't last longer and spills then and there.

"It's okay", she croaks, cradling his head and kissing his hairline as he huffs and gasps into the base of her throat, "I'm with you. I'm right here with you."

Her words ring in his ears and in some way, they mean more to him than a simple I love you, too. He's still hard, still flexing and circling his hips, and maybe he'll never be able to stop. A tiny smirk sparks off the corner of his mouth.

He comes up for air and takes her in.

She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. And she's so dear, so important to him. She's the unflappable force that pumps the blood through his veins, the thin connective tissue that keeps his organs from coming unstitched. Losing her is something he can't bear to think about because he knows that it would gut him – literally. It would break him to pieces and in the end, there'd be nothing left of him. He sighs and brings their foreheads together.

Unlike him, she comes oh-so quietly.

She bows down to mild paranoia in the aftermath while he squats down and assists her in stepping back into her panties. She starts to ramble when he gives her his t-shirt. Something cute and ridiculous about her being afraid that they might've traumatised the boy. He blows out the candles, takes her hand, and leads her to the bedroom.

"See?"

Up in the top bunk, Carl is still very much asleep. His face is a bit scrunched up and for a second, he lifts his hand to swat at some imaginary fly before he lets out a grunt and turns to lie on his stomach.

"Okay, but maybe one of us should take the floor", she insists half-heartedly.

"No", he says and moves to the closet; he finds another t-shirt for him and throws a pair of boxer shorts in her direction, "I can't sleep when you're not right next to me. We both know that."

Her wide eyes and nervous smile make him want to melt into a puddle. He's hers now. It's a simple fact and she'll have to get used to it.

Reluctantly, she joins him on the bottom bunk and lays her head on his chest. She breathes out a small chuckle when he snakes his arms around her upper body, and she leans in when his lips meet the space between her brows. He can already see this turning into their nightly ritual: her fretting over something and him practically dying to kiss her troubling thoughts away.

"So, are you a bed hog?" he asks.

"What?"

"I just realised that we've never shared a real bed before, so I gotta know if you're gonna shove me up against the wall, push me off the side, or if I'm gonna freeze my ass off 'cause you need to have the blanket all to yourself."

She rewards him with a snort and a giggle – probably because she thinks it's hilarious when he goes overboard with his drawl – and he feels like he just won a medal. Even though he made her purr less than fifteen minutes ago, making her laugh is still his favourite thing to do.

"Don't you worry. I learned how to sleep in small spaces during my residency."

"I bet you breezed through the oral boards without breaking a sweat."

"Oh, no. I was a complete mess. My mentor, Dr Monroe, switched off her cell phone because I called and texted her every ten minutes the night before. And I couldn't sleep, so I cleaned my apartment, watched old period dramas, and ate a whole family size box of Twinkies. I can't remember a thing about the exam, but I know that I nearly screamed my lungs out when I results came in."

"Because you aced it", he concludes confidently.

"Because I aced it.

He peers down at her and her grin is so fulgent that he has to kiss her again, simply because he loves the idea of her kicking ass in and out of an OR. He knows what she's capable of and he's more than glad that he got the chance to witness her in action once or twice before everything went to shit.

Keeping her cool and using her laser focus to save some poor soul from a grim fate, she never failed to amaze him and his colleagues from the station, who soon referred to her as Harrison Memorial's very own MVP. He became a little jealous when he learned that she was dating Zeke King from the crime scene unit, and he became extremely frustrated when he stumbled upon them at the grocery store. They looked good together, like they were starring for an eHarmony commercial, but he had a hard time pretending not to feel relieved when he got wind of their split-up a couple of months later.

Her body curls with a yawn. Above them, Carl kicks off an incoherent speech about chocolate pudding and tennis balls.

"We're gonna talk to him tomorrow, okay?" he mumbles into her hair, completely taken with her scent.

She nods against his chest and he can tell that she's on the brink of falling into a sweet coma. He can't blame her for feeling exhausted after the day they had. His own limbs start to grow fuzzy with fatigue and he allows himself to close his eyes when she places her hand on his belly and hums into his shirt.

"Okay."

This is probably a HUGE SPOILER, but the ending of this fic will be different from the book/movie ending.

Thanks for reading!

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Quotes/References

1) Hate on Lori (and/or Mike) all you want, but please - for the sake of everyone who is currently struggling with suicidal thoughts or had to struggle with them in the past - try not to hit below the belt in your comments. Thanks in advance.

2) Dopamine is one of the so-called "happy chemicals" that can be released when we kiss or do something that we thoroughly enjoy.

3) Blood Relatives and Evil Stepmothers are two of the many true crime TV documentary series broadcast by Investigation Discovery.

4) Harrison Memorial is a hospital in Cynthiana, KY.

5) eHarmony is an online dating website.